Nightmare
by aoiteto
Summary: My body is fighting me. "It's angry," the Terrible Thing tells me. "But it'll get over it. It'll get over it once you're perfect."
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any relations and associates._

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_**Nightmare  
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**_Chapter 1_**

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Dinner is set in front of me. Steak – Bruce's favorite – drizzled in warm sauce, oozing oils and fat. The vegetables are bright and crisp. But I know their secret. The grease laughs at me as it sizzles in the low light of the dining room.

Bruce sits across from me, on the long stretched out table. When I was younger, my plates would be set on the seat to his right. I was still little then. I needed a guardian to make sure I could reach the salt and pepper, finished all the Brussels sprouts, and that I'm not playing with my food. When I was little he would cut my steak for me.

Now, I'm expected to do it myself. I'm old enough to know how much is enough and how much makes me bloated. Alfred helps. He calculates the grams and kilos and make sure I'm getting enough calcium and protein in every bite.

Bruce stuffs a forkful in his mouth. There's only me here. There's no need to be polite and modest in front of the quiet, silent boy who plays with the food on his plate and looks like he's too busy cutting the thick meat to eat any of it.

"How was your day?" The talking has started. He's asking me question, testing me mentality, waiting to hear what the crazy freak will reply.

I know my lines. I've been in this play before. I've prepared myself, made up mental cue cards, revised, revised, revised.

"Fine," distract him with the short, blunt answer, shrugging off his question like a normal kid would. "We had a substitute again. Mr. Patcher was still out with the cold."

"Your science teacher." Bruce knows everything. The big dark scary Batman can stare into your soul, read your dirty, dingy secrets like cracking open a book. He knows my grades are starting to slide but he hasn't said anything yet. He knows I know. But it's his way of showing me he trusts me.

"Yep," bad grammar, Alfred's too occupied on fixing dessert in the kitchen to reprimand me. I change the subject so we don't accidentally stumble on my grades. "How's work? You went to the office today."

Bruce nods, has a taste of his red wine while I cut the broccoli on my plate into thirds. "There was a meeting with Jack Carter that Lucius wanted me to sit in on."

"The guy from Hastings & Co.?"

Bruce nods again. I see him eye my plate. It's still full. But now everything is cut into equal sized chunks. If I don't start eating he's going to get suspicious. He's going to start keeping tabs. He's going to bring up my weight.

I go right for the evil and dirty. The head honcho. I watch the juices ooze out as my fork slowly stabs into the meat. I move it around the plate a bit to collect some more of the heavy sauce and pop the medium-rare into my mouth. I ignore the way it melts like butter. I fight the taste of herbs and the guzzling homemade sauce. Everything is a number as I count each bite and the seconds between each chew. I swallow and pretend like something inside me didn't just die a little.

Bruce has gone back to his own meal but his attention is still on my plate. On how long we have sat at the table and how much is still on my plate. On how much I'm eating. On how calculated each forkful is. On me, me, me.

_Please don't talk about it._

I feel like screaming.

I take a sip of water. I try to wash away the taste of fat and grease in my mouth. Alfred would have a field day if I blew chunks at the dinner table.

I go back to my plate. I decide on the veggies as the first obstacle. They're lighter and less destructive. Broccoli, _ignore the taste, it's not worth it_. Carrot, _ignore how the grease is building up_. Cauliflower, _ignore your stomach. It's just the acid talking. _

Ignore it, ignore it, ignore it.

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My room is a mess. Clothes clump in groups and piles around the room. Books are scattered and piled over one another into makeshift towers. I have my own den with a fireplace and a small study connected to my room. The extra space is very useful when I need more floor space for towers and clumps.

I lock the bathroom door and step lightly towards the toilet. If I step to hard the eggshells under my feel will break. I kneel over the porcelain throne and heft the seat up gently. Two fingers go down my throat and I force my gag reflex to start working. My stomach empty's all the fats and oils and grease in chunks and the voices, screaming, mocking, laughing, crying; they all fall into the toilet with my dinner.

I turn on the shower and step in front of the mirror. The contorted face smiles at me. The Terrible Thing has words etched into its surface, oozing and gushing blood and rotting disease. The words dance and are burned onto its skin, the pain laughing and every lick opens new cut. The Terrible Things whisper death and gore in my ears.

_Good job, _it wheezes, _but you ate too much. There's too much garbage inside you. They've clung onto your skin. You're weak. Fucking disgusting. Worthless little piece of shit. _

I guzzle on mouthwash for half a minute before stripping the clothes from my body. Steam has fogged the mirror but it doesn't hide the rolls of fat on my body or the uneven lines that make up my face.

I step into the shower and turn the tap till it won't budge any further. The jets of water are like bullets cutting into me and leaving me raw.

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I tell Bruce I have homework. That there's a test in physics tomorrow that I want to study for. I'm on the floor of my room, fighting through the burn and the pain, counting each sit-up. I need to cram five hundred in the next three minutes. I take a simmering breath and persevere.

Ten minutes later I'm situated on my bed with my textbook and notes draped in front of me. When Bruce comes in I don't tell him it's because I'm too tired to sit up straight. I pull the comforter around me and hope he doesn't notice the way I'm shivering.

He asks me how the studying is coming along. I answer optimistically. He absorbs the answer but we both hear the Terrible Things, bringing up my grades, bringing up 'disappointment'.

Bruce asks if I want to stay home and finish my school work instead of taking up the mantle – just for tonight. He's not asking. Bruce's made it clear since I first started that school came first. He's not asking. But it's nice that he pretends he is.

I stifle the fear of him taking Robin away and ignore the way my brain tries to get through the fog and persuade me into staying home and under the covers. Terrible Thing sneers and I stretch a smile and tell Bruce I'll be down in a minute.

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My body is fighting me. _It's angry_, the Terrible Thing tells me. _But they'll get over it. They'll get over it once you're perfect_.

My brain reprimands. _You shouldn't have gone out. Look at you. You're so fucking lucky you can even throw a punch. You're so fucking lucky you didn't break an arm or a leg or your rib cage out there. Look at you. You can't even stop shaking. It's almost summer for fuck sakes. You're not supposed to be cold in the summer._

The Terrible Thing just stares at me; its cold bloody eyes bore into me, jagged teeth and a voice that sound like grinding bones when it talk whispers. _You're pathetic._

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Nightmares surround me. I can't sleep. A bottle of sleeping pills are pulled out from under a pile of clothes where Bruce doesn't know about. I throw back two and pull the blankets over me, wrapping the comforter around me. I make a note to find a new place to hide the pills tomorrow. In case Alfred decides on one of his impromptu hurricanes of vacuums and garbage bags.

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**110.50**

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_**A/N **_**: This story will only be a couple of chapters I think. I hope you like it. Enjoy!**

**PS. Feel free to tell me if you find any mistakes.  
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	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer: I don't own Batman or any relations and associates._

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_**Nightmare**_

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_**Chapter 2**_

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We sit there in the kitchen and it's quiet.

It's rare for Titans Tower to be this silent and I think it's because I've never actually stayed at the tower after everyone had left. But it's not empty and I know Wally's still sleeping in his room and Donna went out earlier and Garth slipped out this morning because Aquaman needed him.

Roy's the only other one awake aside from me and we're sitting across from each other with the newspaper between us. Oliver Queen loses his fortune and in the shits with his own company boasted the headline in bold letters.

I figure that's why I felt so weird, like something was out of place and I was somewhere else. Because Roy's never this quiet, not even when he's asleep because his snores sound like the engine of a beat up car that can't start. In the seven years I've known him this would maybe be the third time I've seen him so conflicted, dark emotions and confusion emitting from his body language and facial expression in waves.

I come back from my thoughts and notice I'm chewing at my nail again. It's something I've noticed I've been doing lately. I've never had a phase where I bit my nails and I can't remember how it started but I seem to do it a lot when I'm too far gone into my own head. I notice I've bitten into the skin and I'm bleeding again. I pull down my sleeve and roll my hand into a fist to hide it.

Roy's still staring at the paper. I don't know if he's even read it but you don't really have to when you've been living it. I crack a smile, even though I know it might look inappropriate and it feels weird on my face. It's not real but lately I can't find anything to smile about.

"Hey, did you hear?"

I get his attention. His eyes are glassy but he blinks and focuses on me.

"I heard Bruce Wayne's been fucking his ward. You know, that kid he took in? Never knew Wayne liked little boys."

He blinks and he doesn't say anything while his minds trying to clear enough to figure out what I'm talking about.

"I read it all over the papers. It makes sense, don't you think? Why else would a billionaire playboy adopt some random kid? I mean, he probably gets hard just thinking about sticking his penis in the kids ass. I bet the kid likes it too. What a perv."

I see it. It clicks and a slow smile spreads on his face. "No."

"Mmhm. That's what I heard. And I bet you can't even guess what the kids name is."

"Tell me." He leans in like he's anticipating to hear the biggest news story of the year.

"Dick."

"No fucking way."

"I know. What a sick freak. He probably does like getting fucked, that little shit. I bet Wayne gives him anything he wants to keep him quiet."

"Ugh, that's so sick."

I'm smiling and he has a small smile on his lips. His is real and I know I should leave him alone now, to sort out his thought for a while before the others get back.

"Want breakfast?"

I don't wait for an answer and I'm in the kitchen opening drawers and pulling out things I need. I find the flour in the top cabinet and I know there are eggs in the fridge. I try not to hesitate. Try to look normal cause I know Roy can see me from where he's sitting and I don't want him to start noticing. I hear the Terrible Thing whispering thoughts and its black claws wrapping itself around me and I feel suffocated.

_We know don't we? Who really wants to eat here? You're so fucking weak. I bet Roy's laughing at you inside. He knows how pathetic you are. They all do. Don't get greedy. You already had almonds for breakfast. Almost a quarter of the bag. You're disgusting. You're fucking vile._

I throw open the fridge but keep my eyes averted. The Terrible Thing is clouding my mind, slicing me inside and I feel desperation to get out, get out of my body, get out and don't look back.

My hands touch the carton of eggs and I block out the smell of last night's pizza, remember the bites I managed before I had to excuse myself to purge the fats and oils from my body. What was I thinking? I should have just told them I ate at home. They would have believed me. We were watching Kick Ass and they would have been too busy watching the movie to notice.

The smell reminds me of the taste and I can feel the hatred burning in my stomach as it tears me apart inside out. I slam the door shut and decide that eggs are enough. I'll just make regular pancakes today, no fruit, no chocolate, nothing that could distract me.

I know how to make pancakes. It's a simple process. I use to help my mom make them in the morning and sometimes Alfred still lets me help measure the flour and pour the chocolate. I'd always pour too much and now I regret and I know. I know that I can never make up for how much I ate and ate and ate until I became the fucking disgusting shit I was. I am.

But there's still that part of my sanity that's there. That's not taken over by _it_. I'm not too far gone too know what a piece of shit I am and that what I do isn't normal and that eating pancakes for breakfast is as normal as it gets. I know people like Roy and Donna, normal people, perfect people can manage three meals a day. Maybe six for Wally. They can laugh and talk at the dinner table without counting the grams they're about to consume and feeling caged in while they plan how to avoid the meals all together.

So I make the pancakes and I smell the mix and Roy comes in and looks over my shoulder and tells me they smell great before going to the bathroom.

_Do it. You know you want to. You know you're disgusting and weak. Come on. Do it._

I stack the pancakes on one plate and take out smaller ones for the others with forks and knives. The syrup is in the cupboard and the chocolate sauce and jam are in the fridge.

_Aren't you hungry? I bet you're starving. After going through all that work don't you feel you deserve one? _

Why was it doing this? Eating was bad. Food was evil. Don't do it.

_Just one? Maybe layer the chocolate, drench it in syrup. It smells good doesn't it? It must taste sweet._

One. One was okay. One was fine. It was right. I worked hard. I deserved one, right? Only one? I've been good recently. I've been purging after every meal sometimes even when I've eaten nothing so it's fine right?

_That's right. You deserve this. You got an A on your term paper didn't you? Even though you were so dizzy. Even though you blacked out. You still finished it and handed it in. Wait till Bruce sees. He might even stop thinking you're a waste of space, fucking garbage, maybe…_

I'm out of the room before Roy gets back. I hear the elevator buzzing and know that someone will be up any second now. I'm gone. I'm in the bathroom. It's empty, I make sure, and I go to the farthest stall from the door where I lean over the toilet and stick two fingers down my throat. It hurts. It hurts too much. My throats clogged. I can't breathe. The toxins are splitting me apart.

I make sure everything gone. I stick my fingers down my throat until I'm coughing on blood. I clean the evidence and wash the vile from my face. I find my way to my room and close the door before anyone passing by could see me. There's a pack of laxatives at the bottom of my bag and I wolf some down.

I fall to the floor exhausted and know I'm dying. That I'm going to die soon. And I can't even feel sorry.

The entire time the Terrible Thing laughs at me, its chilling me, its limbs slither around me and clench till I collapse, till I'm fighting to breathe, taking away my conscious, taking me far far away from here.

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We have another movie night. Nothing happened today. No explosions, threats, psychopaths destroying the city. We were all settled in, on the couch, around the TV with boxes of take-out sitting in front of us.

For once I can ignore the ache to reach out and gorge. I'm still too tired to move and my minds too muddled to really think about anything.

I'm shivering but the baggy clothes hide it. I have a blanket wrapped around me when Donna touched my hand and commented on my body temperature. I made my excuses, told them I thought I was coming up with something, maybe a bug that was going around. I got a few worried looks from Wally, Garth stared me down, and Roy gave me a fleeting look before take-out arrived and everyone seemed to forget.

I was glad. I was too tired to come up with any excuses. Too tired lately. The dizzy spells were coming back.

When I woke up after passing out I worked out in the gym for a couple of hours. It made my body cry and my muscle burn but I couldn't stop. The numbers were piling in my head and I couldn't stop. I was scared to stop because I knew that if I did there would be no solace. I'd lose my edge, I'd lose Robin, and I'd lose Bruce and Roy and Wally and Donna and Garth and Alfred and then there'd just be me, my mind, and the Terrible Thing.

And I knew what would happen next.

"Hey Dick, are you okay?"

I blinked, tried forcing the images back and come back to the present, to reality. It was getting harder.

The movie was over, the credits were rolling on the screen and everyone was staring at me, looking at me. I wanted to scream.

"Yeah, why." I pretended I couldn't hear my voice. Didn't hear the way it croaked and sounded full of air.

The look on their faces told me they weren't buying it.

"Sweety, maybe you should go to bed. You don't look so good." Donna reached an arm over to hold me, to reassure me. She was so warm and I wanted to cry. She was the sister I never had. She was the only one who still hugged me and kissed me and told me she loved me. And the thought of leaving her was painful.

Leaving her? Why would I be leaving her?

Its voice was crystal clear and resonated like a gong chiming inside my head.

_You know why. You know why, don't you? You know what's going to happen next and you know that everyone will be happier after._

Shut up.

_You disgust them. You're disgusting. _

Shut up shut up shut up shut –

_You're a parasite._

– up shut up shut up shut –

_A disease._

"Just _SHUT UP_."

"Dick?"

I flinched. I flinched and I hated myself and I pulled myself into a ball and I hated myself, I hated myself, I hated myself, hate myself, just so much hate.

"Hey man, are you okay?"

"I – yeah – I don't – yeah – "

Roy's palms faced out. Why was he looking at me like that? Why were they all looking at me like that? Like I was crazy. Was I crazy? Where the fuck did sanity go.

"Dickie, come on, I'll take you back to your room now okay? You should get some sleep."

I wanted to punch him. I wanted to kick and claw and bite and scream and scream and fight and cry and scream some more. I wanted the pain to go away I wanted the pain to go away I want the pain to go away I want –

I was so tired.

I felt Donna's arms wrap around me, felt the way her hands were always so soft and warm. She passed me to Roy and I realized I was being carried and I couldn't care less.

I just wanted to sleep. That's all I wanted.

"It's okay. I'll take care of him." He said it to the others, the room quiet and the TV still playing credits. Roy carried me to my bedroom, had to open the door with his elbow and push it open with his hip. He carried me to my bed and tucked the blankets around me. Left the room and I realized I had fallen asleep when I woke up and he came back with more blankets.

He sat on the side of the bed, looking at me and I don't know why but I looked back. And I was so tired, I was so tired and exhausted and couldn't even feel embarrassed or angry or sad when I realized that Roy knew. Roy _knew_. I started feeling confused but I passed out before I could worry about it anymore.

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**104.50**

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**_A/N _: Sorry if there's any mistakes. Feel free to tell me if you find any. Thank you :)**


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